Of Human Bondage
by Aconitum-Napellus
Summary: Illya frequently gets tied up against his will, but this time it's completely his own decision. Napoleon has to work out how he feels about his partner, and about bondage. Slash. Rated 18.


'The man in question is a photographer. More specifically, of late, a photographer of shibari,' Waverly said blandly, handing out a glossy black and white headshot of a very ordinary looking dark haired man. Illya's eyebrows rose towards his hairline, but Napoleon shook his head.

'I – uh – I'm afraid we haven't heard of shibari. What's that, some kind of Japanese knife play?'

'It's Japanese rope bondage,' Illya said in an extremely matter of fact tone, taking the headshot. He donned his tinted reading glasses and turned the photograph over to look at the name on the back. 'Yes, I know his work. It's rather good. I have some of his books.'

Napoleon turned to look at his small, unassuming blond colleague in astonishment.

'You – ah – have a book of Japanese rope bondage? You mean – Is it an instruction manual?'

Illya smiled. 'No, Napoleon. It is not an instruction manual. I _do_ have some interests outside of the job. They are erotic photographs of persons in compromising positions.'

Napoleon felt himself blush to the roots of his hair.

'Well, Mr Solo, I would have thought with your romantic proclivities – ' Waverly began, and Solo switched his astonished gaze to him instead.

'I don't – uh – need to tie a lady up to have her spend the night,' he said rather acidly, trying to recover his composure after the revelation that both Illya and his boss were perfectly _au fait_ with the idea of trussing women up for sexual purposes.

Illya tusked in irritation. 'Napoleon, bondage – I mean bondage in the bondage, domination, and sado-masochism community – is always consensual. It is more a symbol of trust than domination.'

Napoleon realised he was gaping. He stood up, straightening his cuffs very self consciously, and went to the small alcove in the room that held coffee making facilities. The pot was already warm and full, so he filled three cups, added sugar and cream, or not, to each of their likings, and carried them back to the table.

'This – er – ' He wanted to say _pervert_ but carefully said, 'This man. What is it that he's done? I mean, apart from tying up young ladies and taking photographs of them?'

'Mr Solo, he has also developed a camera with a lens so small one could conceal it in a button hole. In fact, one could conceal the whole camera in a button. Because of its size, the sound of the lens reflex is unnoticeable in all but the most silent of conditions, and that could be covered by the smallest rustle of clothing.'

'I see,' Napoleon mused. 'And I guess he isn't generously donating that technology to the law enforcement agencies of the world.'

Waverly huffed out breath. 'No indeed, Mr Solo. He is most ungenerously selling it to Thrush for half a million dollars.'

'And we know this how?' Illya asked, leaning forward on his elbows.

'Mr Kuryakin, we're not entirely lacking in methods of surveillance ourselves,' Waverly said reprovingly. 'We picked it up on a routine phone tap. Which reminds me; certain innovations have been made in that field too. When this affair is wrapped up I want you both to attend the new phone tap course.'

Napoleon glanced at Illya, saying under his breath, 'Well, that should promise us a quiet week, at least.'

'Almost a vacation,' Illya nodded.

Waverly's eyes were like gimlets. There was nothing wrong with his hearing, either.

'If the two of you want a vacation you should take some of your paid leave. The phone tap course is _not_ a vacation and there's plenty of opportunity for you to deal with minor affairs outside of the course hours.' Their boss tapped his finger sternly on the table. 'This is the matter at hand, gentlemen. Mr Aubrey Winchester, photographer.'

'...of women in bondage,' Napoleon muttered.

'Shibari is an art,' Illya said rather tersely, and Napoleon flicked a look at him. There was no hint of a blush on his fair cheeks, only annoyance that Napoleon seemed to find the idea distasteful.

' _Gentlemen!_ ' Waverly's voice cracked like a whip, and both men turned their eyes to him like schoolboys caught talking when the master had asked for quiet. 'Mr Winchester can be found most often at his studio between nine and five, Monday to Friday.'

'Very regular hours for such a – ' Napoleon started to murmur, but stopped when Waverly shot him a look and then tossed a dossier over to him.

'This contains all the information you will want on the man,' he said. 'I suggest you take it back to your office and study it. You will need to determine where he keeps the plans for this incredible camera, retrieve them if possible, destroy them if not.'

'And Mr Winchester?' Illya asked.

'He is not a hardened villain, Mr Kuryakin. He is an artist, of a type. I would prefer for him to remain alive, and be _persuaded_ of the foolishness of his actions, rather than taken permanently out of the field.'

'Well, yes, so would I,' Illya murmured.

 _No doubt to ensure he produces another one of those books_ , Napoleon thought uncharitably, but he tossed down the remainder of his coffee, swept up the dossier, and stood up, flicking some dust off his lapel as he did.

'Coming, _mon ami_?' he asked of Illya, and Illya smiled somewhat restrainedly, and joined him.

((O))

Once in their small shared office Napoleon dropped the dossier down on his desk and sat, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the desk.

'How about some more coffee, comrade?' he asked hopefully.

Illya showed him the mug he had brought from Waverly's room. Being black, the hotter liquid was taking longer to drink. 'I have coffee, thank you, but it's kind of you to offer.'

Napoleon made a face. Illya knew that Solo had been hoping for him to go and make the coffee, and Napoleon knew that Illya knew it, and he knew that Illya knew that he knew – _Oh, bother_. He swung his feet back to the floor and went to put the pot on the hotplate. He had put Illya in a bad mood by his barely restrained opinion about bondage, and he was rather startled by that. Oh, he knew that there was far more to Illya than his restrained exterior would suggest. Still waters run deep. That was one of the few clichés one could actually apply to Illya, because Illya was an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a cheap black suit. He knew that Illya was a closet jazz fan, an artist on the English horn, a guitarist, and something of an acrobat. Almost every mission he discovered a new fact about his small Russian friend that he had never suspected before. But he had never thought he would have an interest in tying people up for sexual purposes. After all, he got tied up enough while on the job, didn't he? Surely he didn't get off on that?

'Illya, this – er – photographer – ' he began cautiously.

Illya had sat down at his desk and was leafing through a stack of papers in front of him.

'Aubrey Winchester,' he said. 'English. Oxford educated. I think he's in his forties. He lives above his studio in the East Village.'

Napoleon cleared his throat. 'You – er – you know him, then? You didn't think to tell Mr Waverly that little tidbit?'

'Mr Waverly doesn't need to know everything,' Illya shrugged. 'Although if he's got a phone tap on him he might already know that I know him. Yes, I go to a jazz club sometimes that he likes. I recognised him from the fly leaf of his book, so I got talking after my set.'

'After your – er – ' Napoleon was starting to feel slightly humiliated. How many more things were there about Illya that he didn't know?

Illya sighed and pushed papers aside. 'Sometimes I take my English horn and I play sets at Le Renard Roux. They let people join in if they're good enough.'

'Well, okay,' Napoleon nodded slowly. 'And you're good enough, of course.'

'Of course,' Illya said, with no hint of false modesty.

'And then when you've finished your set you sit down and talk with – er – '

'Photographers,' Illya said, sounding rather terse for a moment. 'Photographers, artists, writers, musicians, music lovers, drunkards, stoned people, people who are pretending to be in the scene, people who live the scene wherever they are. You should try going to a place like that one day, Napoleon. It might broaden your mind.'

'Okay,' Napoleon said slowly, then said in a more conciliatory tone, 'Okay. So, you sit down and talk with him. Does he know where you work?'

Illya's eyes narrowed. 'Of course he doesn't, Napoleon,' he said impatiently. 'I'm hardly going to pass over that kind of information to someone who – '

'Someone who what?' Napoleon asked curiously.

There was a slight blush in Illya's cheeks, and Napoleon wondered about it.

'Someone who works in that kind of underground field?' he asked with a sense of triumph. 'You're admitting it's a little shady, at last?'

Illya had dropped his head to look at his papers again, his glasses firmly on, and when he looked up again all hint of a blush had gone.

'It's not shady,' he said. 'It's an art form. No, I didn't mean that. It doesn't matter what I meant. Can we just stick to the necessities of the job, please? There isn't any need for our personal lives to intrude.'

((O))

It was a long day for Napoleon, working around Illya's prickliness and trying to restrain his curiosity and keep to the subjects contained in the piles of paperwork on his desk. As well as digging into the details of the photography case there were three missions to complete reports on, and a risk assessment to compose over a new form of button explosive. Of course that assessment required a lot of close work with Illya, because he was so knowledgeable about such things, but today it was hard to eke anything useful out of him because he seemed to take all of Napoleon's comments as barbs.

'Look, why don't you go down to the gym and work some of this out of your system?' Napoleon said eventually, trying so hard to conceal his irritation. Illya had been snapping at him all day.

Illya took off his reading glasses and put them down on his desk with a sharp clack.

'I think I will,' he said, and stalked out of the room.

Napoleon sighed. He picked up Illya's glasses, feeling the slight warmth left in the arms from the heat of his skin. He held them for a moment, then folded the arms in and put them in the soft leather case Illya almost never bothered to use. Then he sat down at his desk and tried to finish his report alone.

((O))

It was something of a surprise when Illya came back from the gym in poloshirt and slacks, still glowing from the exercise, on the dot of five, and said, 'Come back to my place for coffee, Napoleon, and I'll try to tell you a bit more about this photographer. You never know who might be listening around here.'

'Uh, okay,' Napoleon said, shuffling his papers and locking them away in the filing cabinet. 'Er, don't you want to shower first?' he asked, because Illya was still sheened with sweat.

'It's five o'clock and we're not on a mission. I want to go home,' Illya said firmly. 'You have the soft top, don't you? We can travel with the roof down and I'll try not to offend you with my stench.'

So, he was still prickly. Napoleon repressed his exasperation and gathered up his things to leave.

'Come on, sweaty,' he said.

Illya was looking for his glasses.

'They're in the case on your desk,' Napoleon said, picking them up and handing them to him. He brushed Illya's hand and felt how warm he still was from his workout. 'The breeze of the ride will do you good.'

'In Manhattan traffic, I'd probably be faster walking,' Illya said, but he slipped the glasses into his pocket and shoved his papers haphazardly into the top drawer of the closest filing cabinet, and locked it.

((O))

Illya disappeared into the shower as soon as they got in, leaving Napoleon to look after himself. It wasn't as if he hadn't spent hours here before. He knew where everything was. He considered going to make the coffee, but then decided he'd best leave that until Illya was out of the shower. He didn't know how long he was going to take.

He stood in front of Illya's vast bookshelves instead, just perusing the books. He had to smile a little at the arrangement of them. The top shelf was filled with books that were far more dusty and looked far more untouched. Illya must keep the ones he wanted frequently on lower shelves. He let his eyes linger over the spines, taking in Russian and French and English titles. There were even a couple in Greek. Then he noticed the lowest shelf of all, which held taller books. There was a section that seemed to contain books on art. Something on the great impressionists, something on cubism. Then the name _Aubrey Winchester_ jumped out at him. It was a most unassuming looking book, about a foot tall, an inch thick, with a black cloth spine and the name impressed on it in white. It was titled _The Art of Shibari_.

He turned his ear towards the bathroom. The shower was still running. Illya would be some time yet. So he sat down cross legged on the parquet floor and carefully drew the book out of the shelves. The cover was a little worn. The book looked as if it had been thumbed through quite a few times. Tentatively, he opened it.

He expected petite, dark haired Japanese women. Perhaps he was – could he admit that? – perhaps he was looking forward to it. What he hadn't expected was for the first picture he saw to be of a well-muscled, distinctly hairy, six foot man. He sat there for a moment, just looking. He was caught in some kind of impossible trap, hung upside down, suspended, his strong limbs tied tightly with a macramé web of pale rope. Napoleon's eyes moved almost inevitably to the man's cock, which had been allowed to protrude through a, he had to admit, rather beautiful piece of knotwork. The man wasn't completely aroused; he supposed the law wouldn't allow him to be, in a photograph, but there was a thickness there which spoke of imminent arousal. He didn't look as if this were against his will, either. His eyes were closed and his face looked serene.

Napoleon felt a tingling deep down in his groin. God. He could feel heat entering his cheeks. He wasn't exactly a stranger to finding men attractive. He had never really based attraction on gender, but more on the person to whom he was attracted. He hadn't expected this to arouse him, though. Surely this couldn't arouse him? He spent half his working life trying to avoid getting tied up, getting tied up, trying to get free from being tied up. He had seen Illya tied up on numerous occasions. He had never felt that low down, insistent little throb in his loins at that sight, not like he was feeling now.

He flicked on a couple of pages. Maybe there would be a woman in there somewhere. But he didn't see one. There was a smaller man, contorted like a dying spider. There was a man's torso, intricately woven with knots, his cock just in sight at the bottom of the page. And then –

He drew in breath so sharply it hurt. He almost dropped the book.

That was Illya. God. That bright blond blaze of hair. The angle of his neck. The shape of his arms. He was facing away from the camera and his face wasn't shown, and perhaps only someone who knew him as well as Napoleon would ever recognise him. But that was Illya. The only thing that puzzled him was a scar that was missing from his arm, where it should have been visible. Napoleon remembered him getting it, when a bullet had struck through the window of the helicopter they were in, as they hovered above a Scottish island. Perhaps the photo had been taken before that, though. It was possible. Nevertheless, it was Illya…

The tingle in his loins exploded into something uncontrollable, pressing up the centre of his body like a flower bursting to life. God, that was Illya, naked as a savage, trussed up, every one of his exquisitely developed muscles showing the tension of a race horse ready to run.

He slammed the book shut and pressed it back into the bookcase, and was standing up and turning away just as Illya himself came into the room. He was naked but for a towel wrapped around his waist, rubbing another towel through his hair, glowing and fresh and perfect.

Thank god the sofa was between them, because Napoleon's cock was hard in his trousers, and how on earth would he explain that to his partner, on a day when he was already as prickly as a hedgehog?

'Er – Good shower?' he asked, having to say something, blurt anything, to cover that bizarre moment.

'A shower is a shower,' Illya said with a careless shrug of his water-beaded shoulders. 'I'm clean. Is the coffee made?'

'No, not yet,' Napoleon said.

He was trying desperately to be able to talk to Illya, but also quell that traitorous erection pressing at the crotch of his trousers. He was trying to think of shoes, of Waverly's most chilling expression, of cold showers. But shoes made him think of Illya's shoes and showers just brought him back to Illya standing there now, glowing and moist, and Waverly's most chilling expression did nothing at all.

'I'll go and put the kettle on,' Illya said with a little huff of exasperation.

Great. He was still angry. Napoleon walked over to the window while Illya went into the kitchen, and willed the erection to subside. Was that really for Illya? Was it for Illya, tied up and naked and helpless, photographed by – he had to admit it – an expert in his field? He had caught Illya perfectly, all the power of him, the strength of him, the sense that he was a compact explosion waiting to happen. The light on his hair had looked like a blaze of sunlight on a cornfield under a stormy sky. It had been a beautiful photograph.

Maybe there were more in that book… He found his eyes drawn to it, over and over. Was it sticking out a little more from the shelf than it had been? He touched it with the tip of his shoe and pushed it in a little more. But, no. Now there was a dark mark on the shelves, a little dust-free place because the book had gone in too far. He'd have to pull it out again. He crouched and hooked his finger into the spine, and pulled a little, and that was the moment when Illya came back into the room.

'Enjoying my library?' he asked archly.

Napoleon didn't know what to say. There was no point in making up excuses. They knew each other too well, and had watched each other lie so often.

'I – er – I was curious,' Napoleon said.

'There's nothing wrong with curiosity.'

Illya crouched down and pulled the book out of the bookcase and reached over the back of the sofa to drop it onto the low coffee table.

'After all, it's a coffee table book, isn't it?' he said. 'Coffee tables are supposed to have art books on them, aren't they?'

Napoleon's cheeks felt like fire. Did Illya really want him to flick through that book, right in front of him?

'Is it – Is the whole book men?' he asked, flailing for something to say. Then he realised he'd given away the fact that he'd already opened the covers.

'That one is, yes,' Illya said. He would probably sound nonchalant to a stranger, but Napoleon knew him better than that. 'He's done one of women, and a couple mixed. But his interests lie in that area.'

'In – that area,' Napoleon said. 'So he's – '

'He's homosexual,' Illya said tartly. 'Yes, Napoleon, he is a screaming queer. A fag. One of the deviants of our society. He is an expert in shibari, and he likes fucking men.'

'Has he fucked – ' Napoleon cut off. _You_ , he wanted to say. _Has he fucked you?_

'Napoleon,' Illya said. His eyes were like glacial ice. 'That is a question too far.' He was silent for a moment, then he said, 'I'm going to get dressed and finish off that coffee. Have a look through the book, if you like. Another look, I mean.'

Napoleon was flicking through the pages again when Illya came back from the kitchen, wearing a slim black t-shirt and black jeans now. He wasn't carrying his coffee pot and cups. Instead he had a whisky bottle and two glasses. Napoleon had found more photos of Illya, and he was trying desperately not to get hard again. Illya seemed to be one of the photographer's favourites.

'I left the coffee. I thought this might be more necessary,' Illya said, sitting down on the sofa with a little thump. 'Don't you think?'

'Er – maybe, yes,' Napoleon admitted.

Illya unscrewed the lid from the bottle and poured a decent measure of liquor into each glass.

'What do you think?' he asked, nodding at the book. Napoleon had dropped the cover closed again as soon as Illya had re-entered the room.

'It has you in it,' Napoleon said, because there was absolutely no point in pretending he hadn't recognised him.

'Yes, it does,' Illya said. He took a mouthful of his drink, swallowed, then put the glass down. 'He asked me to pose for him the first time I met him. It took me a while to agree, but in the end I did. It's quite an interesting experience.'

'You must trust him,' Napoleon said. Did he feel jealous at that? There was such a bond of trust between partners and he wasn't sure how he felt about someone else sharing that.

'I do now,' Illya nodded. 'I didn't let him do anything I couldn't get out of until I trusted him. And I have a couple of rules for photographs. No full frontals. No face. I don't want to be identified.'

'Are you – ' Napoleon hesitated, not wanting to be misunderstood, then asked, 'Are you embarrassed by it?'

'Not exactly,' Illya shrugged. 'But in our line of work it's good to stay out of compromising positions.'

'These – ' Napoleon waved at the book, swallowed, and said, 'Illya, these aren't exactly uncompromising.'

'No,' Illya conceded. 'But there are no full frontals, and no face shots. Sometimes I part my hair on the other side and he flips the images. He retouches them to remove identifying scars or moles. But I do pose for him. I sacrifice a lot for my job, Napoleon. I'm not going to sacrifice everything. I own my own person.'

He opened the book and flicked through the pages. He let it fall open at another shot of himself. The photograph was black and white this time, and not much more than Illya's back and roped arms were visible, but it was obvious to Napoleon that it was him. He was facing away from the camera, sitting on the floor, bending forward. His head was dipped almost totally out of sight. His arms were lashed behind him, knotted down his back from shoulders to wrists. His hands were clasped together. The beads of his spine were just visible at the top of his back, striking in the high contrast light and shadow. His neck was exposed and vulnerable. At the bottom his naked buttocks were taut and a little split, just giving a suggestion of what might be between.

Napoleon took such a large mouthful of his drink that he almost choked.

'He's – very good,' he admitted. 'He's a good photographer.'

'I wouldn't have posed if he weren't,' Illya said.

There was such strength in Illya's arms in that photograph. Napoleon traced a finger down the line of them, almost without meaning to. For the binding, he looked stronger than ever.

'It's – ' he said. He coughed, then said, 'It's – more artistic than I had expected. He _is_ a good photographer.'

'As I said, I wouldn't have posed if he weren't.'

Illya picked up the whisky bottle and refilled their glasses, clinking the neck of the bottle a little against the rims.

'You aren't disgusted with me, then?' he asked.

Napoleon shot a look at him. Illya wasn't quite looking back at him. He was keeping the book in the corner of his gaze, and looking somewhere beyond. He realised abruptly what a precious and secret thing Illya had offered up to him. What a huge thing he had done.

'No, Illya, I'm not disgusted at all,' he said. 'I'm – '

He wasn't sure what to say. He wasn't quite sure exactly what it was Illya was offering. He had opened the parcel but he couldn't interpret all of the contents.

'I shouldn't have even started to ask if he'd – If you'd slept with him,' Napoleon said, shame-faced.

'I haven't slept with him, but that's not what you meant,' Illya said. 'What you meant, is, am I queer too?'

Napoleon concentrated on his drink. The liquid was such a beautiful colour, a rich, transparent amber, with currents slowly moving about in the depths. Alcohol was a wonderful device for knocking down barriers.

'I – suppose that I did,' he said. Then he offered quickly, before he could stop himself, 'I'm not entirely on the straight and narrow myself, Illya. I – ' He cleared his throat. 'I have been with a few men in my life.'

Illya looked at him sharply. His eyes looked so blue, a perfect contrast to the amber tones of the drink he was holding near his lips. His lips were so ripe…

'I – had wondered,' he said eventually. 'The way you look at men sometimes, just like you look at women. The way you look at – me.'

Napoleon smiled, suddenly bright with love for Illya. Sometimes he seemed cool as a street cat, but there was insecurity beneath the coolness. Illya was like a deep river running under the ice of winter.

'Illya, if you've ever looked in a mirror you shouldn't wonder at anyone looking at you, myself included.'

Illya shook his head in self-disparagement.

'Don't be ridiculous, Napoleon. I'm five foot seven tall, which is small even by non-American standards. My nose was broken by a cricket ball in Cambridge. I'm covered in scars. I run like – Well, I don't know what I run like because I've never seen anyone else run like that.'

Napoleon regarded him in astonishment. 'For god's sake, Illya!' he said. 'Haven't you heard the girls at headquarters talking about you? You're one of the fittest men in the organisation. You're athletic. There are people who would sell their souls to have hair like yours, and others who would do the same for your eyes. Your nose doesn't look in the least as if it's been broken at any time. And you run like you do everything else – fast and efficiently. You can't honestly think you're unattractive. You must look at that face every morning when you shave.'

Illya shrugged. 'I – just don't see it,' he said.

Napoleon huffed. 'Everyone else does, I promise you. And this Aubrey Winchester – he sees it, doesn't he? I didn't see a single unattractive person in that book. Why would he make an exception for you?'

'It's not always easy for him to persuade people to pose,' Illya shrugged diffidently. 'He was grateful that I agreed.'

'And he pounced on you from day one, you said,' Napoleon reminded him. 'Of course you're attractive, Illya.'

There was a funny light in Illya's eyes, a kind of wanting to believe and a reluctance to believe. He was looking directly at Napoleon, and his lips were parted a little and moist with the whisky. Feeling as though he were jumping from a cliff, Napoleon leant forward, closed the gap, and kissed him.

Illya responded. It took Napoleon a moment to get over that frozen, terrified feeling of just having taken his life in his hands, but he realised then that Illya was responding, hotly and directly and needfully, his hand coming to rest on the back of Napoleon's neck, his mouth opening against Napoleon's, their tongues coming together. The moment seemed to expand until everything else had disappeared. The world could have exploded in a nuclear blast and neither man would have known about it. Then at last the fevered movement slowed, and finally stopped, and they sat there, leaning forehead against forehead, and Napoleon said softly, 'Wow.'

'Wow,' Illya echoed.

The curve of Illya's forehead was smooth and firm against his. It felt so perfect against him. Illya smelt of soap and freshness. Having him so close was a greater intoxicant than the whisky.

'Then, the shibari,' Illya said at last. 'You're not disgusted by it?'

Napoleon tilted his head a little and kissed Illya's nose, then straightened up.

'No,' he said. 'No. I thought I was. I thought I would be. But no, I'm not. You're right. It's an art.'

'I will go and see Mr Winchester tomorrow,' Illya said. 'I'll talk to him. I know him, Napoleon. If he knew anything about Thrush he wouldn't be selling his technology to them. He's like any artist. He wants to make a living from his considerable talents, and he hardly makes enough to cover his bills. An offer like that must have felt like manna from heaven.'

'All right,' Napoleon said. 'You go and see him tomorrow. I'll be tied up – uh, I mean, busy – all day anyway.'

'And tonight?' Illya asked tentatively.

'Tonight I don't have any place to be,' Napoleon told him. 'May I – Illya, may I spend the night?'

Illya's face broke into a smile, a mixture of relief and joy.

'I would love for you to spend the night,' he said.

((O))

Napoleon didn't see Illya at all the next day, after they parted ways in their office at about ten o'clock. Illya was going to speak to Aubrey Winchester. Napoleon had a number of little errands to run about the city, following up various leads for local Thrush activity. Both of them had come into reception yawning and rubbing their eyes. The receptionist on duty had asked them slyly if they'd had a long night, but Napoleon was sure that she would never guess how close to the mark her insinuation was. Napoleon was the lady-killer of U.N.C.L.E., and Illya had a reputation for being a loner, and it was beyond the realms of possibility, to her, that U.N.C.L.E.'s two top agents were tired because they had spent the night making love to one another. She probably just thought they'd been kept up by a mission.

It had been a mission of sorts. A very satisfying mission. Napoleon felt like the cat who had drunk the cream. What exquisite cream Illya was. Still, he was uncertain about his feelings over those photographs in that book. Of course Illya was beautiful in them. That went without saying. But did he really enjoy being tied up like that, when so much of his working life involved being tied up with the real threat of being killed? Could he enjoy it? Was it right for Napoleon to be aroused by the sight?

Illya called him via communicator just half an hour before he was due to finish.

'Napoleon,' he said, and his voice was terse and professional, with no hint that last night they had become lovers. 'I've spoken to him. It's all fine. I'll tell you all about it. Come back to my apartment. You're leaving soon, aren't you?'

'Yes, in about thirty minutes,' Napoleon confirmed. 'It must be my lucky day. I got everything finished and I haven't been pounced on for extra duties. I'm hoping to get out of here before Waverly can collar me. I'm looking forward to hearing about your meeting.'

'There's not much to relate,' Illya told him. 'But come round anyway. Let yourself in, won't you? I'll probably be busy when you get there, but I want to be disturbed.'

'Uh, all right,' Napoleon said. That was rather strange phrasing, he thought. If Illya wanted to be disturbed why couldn't he let Napoleon in?

'Remember that, won't you?' Illya asked through the communicator. 'I want to be disturbed. Let yourself in.'

'Yes, of course,' Napoleon said, looking around the office at what he needed to tidy away. 'I'll just finish off these last bits, then I'll come round. I'll bring my key. Don't worry.'

'Good,' Illya said. 'You'll see me soon, then.'

((O))

Napoleon let himself in with the spare key Illya had given him long ago. It wasn't unusual for one of them to let themselves into the other's apartment, when one of them was ill or injured, or wouldn't be back until later. It surprised him, though, that the lights were off. Surely Illya had made it clear that he would be in? He didn't look into the room for a moment, because he was busy checking the alarm, which had beeped as soon as he stepped through the door. Why would Illya have the alarm on if he were in?

Napoleon punched in the alarm code and flicked on the light, and turned to look into Illya's refined, spare sitting room. He gasped in breath. There Illya was, hanging from the ceiling like a Christmas bauble, calves roped intricately to his thighs, arms knotted elegantly behind his back. His cock stood up from between his splayed thighs like the stamen of an exotic flower, his tight balls like petals curled into themselves, right at Napoleon's eye level. There was a clean white cloth bound about his eyes, and a knotted rope passed between his teeth, effectively gagging him.

Suddenly Napoleon understood the beauty of this. His entire body buzzed from the understanding. Illya was utterly open to him. This was consensual, this was beautiful, and he could have Illya any way he liked. He touched a finger to Illya's shoulder very lightly, just enough to set him in a slow, drifting spin. He could stop that spin and unknot the gag and bend that blindfolded head to his own cock, and set Illya to pleasuring him while Illya had to wait, had no choice but to wait for his own gratification. Or he could step forward and take Illya into his own mouth. He could let down the rope, which he saw now was threaded through the girder that spanned the room's high ceiling, and moored to a very workmanlike looking winch set on the floor, and Illya would still be tied. He could lay him down, tilt him backwards and stretch and oil him and plunge in to that ripe, deep hole that was waiting for him. Or – and god, that sent thrills through him – he could apply the oil to himself, and lower himself, impale himself, and ride Illya until he came.

Oh, yes, he understood. And the slight upward curve of Illya's lips showed him that even blindfolded, even trussed like this, without a single word having been uttered, Illya knew that Napoleon understood.

'You want to be disturbed,' he said, wanting to be utterly sure. 'You said I should let myself in.'

Illya's head dipped in a nod. He didn't make a sound, but he nodded.

'And your – friend – has gone?' Napoleon asked cautiously. Illya couldn't have done this alone.

Illya nodded again. His hair was dishevelled and falling forward over that white blindfold. He was turning so slowly in the air, suspended from that rope.

Napoleon looked sideways at the coffee table, and saw a bottle of lubricant standing there. It was like an invitation. _Let yourself in. Disturb me._

He sat down on the sofa. He wasn't quite sure how to approach this. For a little while he just sat there and watched Illya as he drifted slowly, just waiting. It was an amazing thing to see. How many times had he seen Illya tied up? But he had never been tied like this before. It had always been a real situation, life and death. This was a fantasy. It was like looking at a living work of art, seeing the strength of his muscles crossed by that pale rope, seeing the lines of his body forced into a frozen pose.

He stood again, and as the sofa creaked he saw Illya's little reaction. Well, this was rather fun. There was anticipation written through every line of Illya's body. He stepped closer to him, closer still, until he was almost touching him. Then he leant in and breathed very softly over Illya's cock. Illya gave a small, stifled moan. Napoleon reached out and touched the hard, hot length, and the moan grew as he closed his hand about it and moved it up and down.

'Jesus,' Napoleon murmured.

His own cock was pressing insistently against the cloth of his trousers again, but he ignored it and kept stroking his hand up and down Illya's, using his other hand to lightly trace his fingers over the balls in their tight, ridged sack. Every time he touched him Illya made a deep, needful sound in his throat.

He gently drew back Illya's foreskin, and touched his tongue to the flaring ridge of the head of his cock. He was at the perfect height for this. It was utterly perfect. He slipped his hands around Illya's body, massaged at the globes of his buttocks, and sank his mouth over the hardness of his cock.

He tasted beautiful, clean and fresh. He sucked at Illya's cock head, and Illya moaned. Napoleon felt the muscles of Illya's behind clenching against the palms of his hands, and the sense of power there was incredible. He moved his mouth up and down, and then stopped, and felt Illya trying so hard to move his trussed, suspended body, to force himself back into the depths of Napoleon's mouth. He relented then and started moving on him again, laving the length of his cock with his tongue until Illya was jerking and moaning in the ropes.

He stopped again, and Illya let out a long breath that was half a moan. Napoleon looked up at him. His cheeks were flushed and the knotted rope between his teeth was sodden with saliva. He half wanted to relent and finish him off, but there was something amazing in watching Illya hanging there, waiting and hoping to be touched again, not receiving what he craved.

'Impetuous Russian,' he murmured. 'You'll have to wait until _I'm_ ready.'

He stripped off his own clothing very slowly, taking care over the buttons of his shirt, folding the clothes and draping them neatly over the back of the sofa. He went into the kitchen and got that bottle of whisky and a glass, and poured himself a drink. He sat on the sofa and drank a little, watching Illya hang, just watching until at last Illya gave out a kind of stifled whimper. Napoleon sat there just a little longer, and then he went back and stroked a finger down Illya's erection again. Illya was still so hard. It seemed incredible that he was still hard, but perhaps the rope twined about the base of his cock was aiding that hardness.

He turned his attention to the winch. This person, this man who was such an expert at this art, must have brought it and screwed it to the floor. That place was usually covered by a rug. He wondered how often Illya indulged in this kind of thing in his own apartment. Maybe this was the first time. He wondered if he could study those knotting techniques, and learn to do it himself…

That was something for later. Right now, he looked over the winch, and then turned the handle, letting Illya down very slowly, a few inches at a time, until he was at the perfect height, his split ass a very little lower than Napoleon's hips. He stroked a finger over Illya's face and traced over his lips and the wet knots of the gag. Then he picked up the lubricant and put some on his fingers, turned Illya in the air, and very softly swirled his fingertip about the tight hole between Illya's buttocks. Illya gasped in air through his nose, and moaned, and Napoleon felt an eager tingle of need surging through his own body. He pressed a little harder, slipping his finger into the astonishing heat, the gripping muscle, of Illya's body. He used another finger, then another, stretching that hole until he was sure Illya was ready for him. Then he stood behind him and guided the head of his own cock to the same place, and eased himself in.

God, it felt so good. That hot compression around him was incredible. For a moment he couldn't think of anything. Everything was sensation, the pressure of Illya's body around him, the wonder of being sheathed inside him. He pressed himself fully home, feeling the depth and heat of Illya, feeling the involuntary clenching of those muscles inside him. The weight of Illya's body was just pressing against him. His skin was chill but inside he was so, so hot.

Napoleon held Illya's hips and began to rock, pushing in and out with leisurely slowness, just feeling the sensation of Illya's body compressing every inch of his erection. He reached a hand around Illya's body to clench it around his cock, pumping him with the same rhythm. Illya moaned deep, low sounds of gratification every time Napoleon came to rest inside him, every time he pulled backwards, every time his hand swept down Illya's cock. His hands flexed at the end of his bound arms, grasping for the ungraspable. This was so exquisite it was almost unbearable. It was like owning Illya, having him completely for his own. He pushed in again and again, faster, harder, losing all higher reason, until his balls tightened, and everything exploded in the jerking of orgasm deep inside Illya's body. Illya's own cock was jerking in his hand, his seed was spurting, running over Napoleon's clenched fingers. They were crying out together.

He was standing there, hard against Illya, his head against Illya's shoulder, his cock softening inside him. He was panting, and there was sweat slick between their skins. He could feel the hard bumps of those ropes and knots lying between them, Illya's hands open now and lying against Napoleon's belly. He just rested there, his arms around Illya's body, around his own beautiful partner, trying to recover his breath. He kissed the tight muscles of Illya's shoulder and neck. He let one of his arms drop, then lifted it to trace a fingertip over Illya's toes. His foot was in such an impossible position, with his ankle roped hard to his thigh. His toes felt very cold.

Immediately he came back to himself. His cock was completely soft now, out of Illya's body. He went to the bathroom and found a towel, and gently wiped Illya down, and then himself. Then he let Illya down until he was lying on the floor, and began to work at the knots. He wanted to just cut them, but he could imagine what Illya would say. _Napoleon, that's good rope!_ It was a special kind of rope, it seemed, very soft and pliable. So he tackled knot after knot. After a little while he focussed on the knots of rope passing between Illya's teeth, and got them undone.

'Are you all right, partner?' he asked softly, lifting the blindfold.

Illya's eyes looked a little unfocussed at first, but he blinked a few times as if waking from sleep, and then his blue gaze fixed on Napoleon's face.

'Oh, yes,' he said softly, a little stiffly. 'Yes, I'm very good.'

'You're shaking,' Napoleon said, putting a hand on his arm. Illya was trembling violently.

'Always do,' Illya said. Then he said, 'Don't cut the rope. It's good rope. Aubrey wants it back.'

Napoleon laughed softly, and he carried on working at the knots, unwinding length after length, marvelling at the deep red marks in Illya's skin. When he was finally completely undone he was traced with those red marks, like a ghost of the ropes left behind. Napoleon didn't prevaricate. Illya was still shaking, and looked almost boneless where he lay on the floor. Napoleon scooped him up and carried him into his bedroom and set him on the bed, covering him gently with a blanket. He slipped in underneath, and wrapped his naked body around Illya's nakedness, stroking his hands over his arms, feeling the shaking and the rope marks, kissing his mouth and jaw.

'You're all right?' Napoleon asked him again.

Illya felt so cold. He had grown so cold hanging there in the air.

'Yes,' Illya promised. He caught Napoleon's lips with his own and returned some of the kisses. 'Yes, Napoleon. I am perfect. That was – I hadn't imagined – '

'You hadn't – ' Napoleon began, reeling. 'You mean – you haven't done that before?'

Illya smiled a tired, satiated smile. 'Not that. No, I hadn't done that. I've been in that position before, but, I've never – ' He smiled again. 'I've never been fucked like that. I told you, I haven't slept with Aubrey. He just used me as a model. Who do you think I'd trust to do that to me?'

'Well...' Napoleon said. He felt enormously privileged that Illya had given him that gift. 'Thank you,' he said softly. 'Thank you, Illya. It was – It was amazing.'

Illya smiled like an inscrutable god. Then he said, 'I spoke to him, anyway. I told him all I could about Thrush, and why he shouldn't sell them the plans.'

'But he needs the money, doesn't he?' Napoleon asked. 'Can you be sure he won't still do it?'

'I have the plans here in my apartment, on a promise that Waverly will pay him a handsome fee,' Illya said. 'They're the only plans.'

'You trust him that much?' Napoleon asked him.

'I trust him enough to let him tie me up like that and leave me in my apartment. Which reminds me, I must change my alarm code as soon as I can walk. Yes, Napoleon. I trust him that much. At any rate, I've done all I can. I've done what Waverly wanted from us. We have the plans, and Thrush do not. Of course I can't guarantee there aren't copies. No one can guarantee anything like that. But I do trust him.'

Napoleon wrapped himself around Illya more tightly still. He felt amazed at the depth of Illya's trust, not in Aubrey Winchester, but in his partner. How incredible it was for Illya to have given himself up so utterly to Napoleon's desires.

'I did promise him one more thing,' Illya said. His head was very close to Napoleon's, and a beautiful warmth was growing between them under the blanket.

'What's that, partner?' Napoleon asked.

'Aubrey is going to instruct you in the ancient art of shibari. Ten weekly lessons. I've paid him up-front.'

Napoleon smiled under the blanket. What an incredible thing. The thought of being able to do that again with Illya, perhaps to position him exactly as he wanted him, was an incredible thing.

'You'd let me do that to you?' he asked. 'You'd – Illya, would you let me tie you like that?'

'Napoleon, I _want_ you to tie me like that,' Illya said forcefully. 'It's a wonderful, freeing thing. The absolution of all responsibility for a while. A total surrender to pleasure. So, yes, of course I would let you tie me like that. After all, I can't ask Aubrey to come round and do it every time. He does have his own work to do. And don't you think I'd much rather this was just between us?'

'I'd much rather this was just between us,' Napoleon agreed, kissing Illya again on his broad forehead. 'You know, I don't think I've ever taken an evening class. When the girls at headquarters ask me on dates I'll have to tell them I'm learning macramé.'

Illya laughed. Napoleon stroked a hand down his arm and felt that the dents from the ropes were softening away. The trembling was settling down. He lay there and planned the evening ahead. Takeout, certainly, and a bottle of wine. Illya deserved that. And maybe they'd sit down in the other room and go over those books together, studying the photographs. He hadn't been so eager to learn in a long time.


End file.
